


The Fatal Ingredient

by ausmac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7600771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Severus decides to end his life, a certain H. Potter has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a number of HP fic during my fannish years but took most of them offline as I decided I didnt approve of underage fiction (when I wrote it, anyhow). But in this one both characters are adults, and it is one of my own personal favorites, so I thought I'd share it once more. Naturally it was written prior to "Deathly Hallows" so should be considered an AU at the very least.

He had made a resolution some time during the worst days of his life, that he would make restitution.  It simply wasn’t enough to embrace a better cause and no amount of duty done for that cause’s sake could pay for the deaths he had brought about, or the hidden guilt that he bore.    He had always known it, known that when Voldemort was truly and completely gone, so would he be.  The only payment he could think worthy of the debt was to end his life by his own hand.  

Albus had died at Snape’s own hand; in that moment he’d known that no matter the outcome, his own life was forfeit.  It was just a matter of time, of the moment, of fulfilling his purpose. 

He had worked it all out and spent some time researching the matter.  Using violence was anathema, there had been enough of that around him.  That left a potion, a poison.  Yet none seemed suitable; they were either fast and painful or slow and even more painful.  He might have made some poor decisions in his life, but Severus Snape could see no reason to end his life in pain.

So he had worked on a mixture of his own making.  Slow enough to allow him time to do those things he might have forgotten, a painless drifting towards sleep and final peace.  And there was no antidote, so that once taken, he could not change his mind. 

During the last days Severus allowed himself, he took the time to study the people and places of his life.  Many had died to drive a great foe from the world, and those that survived were often changed by their experiences.  Lupin had aged terribly, his hair had gone snow white and his face was a wrinkled mask.  When the wolf sickness came upon him, he was a grey-muzzled old animal who spent most of his nights lying in front of the fire. 

So many of the children had died, or lived to grow old before their time.  Young Longbottom, whose life he had made a misery, died standing before him in a line of battle, taking a blow meant for him.  He was a much finer soul than the man he’d died to save, Severus knew, and his only consolation was that his death had allowed Severus to take part in the last great fight.  The ranks of the Weasley clan were greatly reduced, with a father and three sons dead, and the youngest with an arm missing, scarred for life. 

And then there was Potter. 

Harry.  In the quiet of his own mind, Severus could call him that.  Harry who had grown from annoying nemesis to tall and powerful manhood.  Harry, who hated him, and had every good reason to do so. 

Severus allowed himself a fantasy as he sat by the fire with the goblet of drugged wine in his hand.  It was a foolish fantasy, about love and pleasure, taken and giving, an impossible image of a world that could never have been.  

The last messages had been dispatched by house elves to those throughout Hogwarts who might be concerned at his passing, with orders for the messages to be delivered the next day.  As he drank, he tasted the faint bitterness of the poison beneath the tart white wine.  Not too bad a mix, if he did say so himself. . .

 

 

Harry was finishing up his weekly report when there was the sound of a small throat being cleared somewhere down around his knee.  He looked down, startled, and saw a house elf staring up at him with a worried look on his small pointed face. 

“Excuse me, Professor Potter, but I has this fer ya.  Febrill I am, Slytherin House elf, and I brung you this message.” 

It was odd enough to make Harry frown.  A house elf carrying a message?  “Hullo Febrill.  Who is it from?” 

“Be from Professor Snape, sor.  Its rooly for Professor Mergonigal for tomorra, but Josee, who can read a wee bit, read it and I brung it to you straight off.” 

House elves so rarely did things without orders – or in this case, against orders – that Harry knew this was more than unusual.  He held out his hand.  “Very well, what’s so important I have to see it, Febrill?” 

The elf handed it over, shuffling from foot to foot anxiously.  Since the end of the wars, all the house elves had been given clothes and freed, and those that stayed were servants who were paid in whatever way they deemed suitable.  Febrill was dressed in green shorts and a grey top, his colours vaguely matching the House he served.  “Hope I done right, sor, but it’s awful and you just had to know.” 

Harry unrolled the scroll and the first word his eye caught brought him upright. 

_Poison._

 He blinked and began to read.

  _“Minerva,_

_I hope my actions do not add to your current woes, but I have decided to end my life at this time.  I have taken poison this evening, a mix of my own design, and by the morning when you receive this note I should already have passed away._

_Please see that I am cremated and my ashes scattered in the homewoods around my old house at Deverston.  I have made a will with  . . .”_

He read no further.  Harry was up and out of the room before the scroll hit the floor. 

 

 

It was often the way: when you wanted to stay awake, suddenly all you wanted to do was sleep.  Considering it was his last night on earth, Severus wanted to experience each second, but the combination of exhaustion and stress, along with the first early effects of the potion, were making it hard to stay focused. 

He was considering making a cup of strong coffee when the door flew open to crash against the wall, shattering a small 18th century bookcase and scattering books and other objects over the floor.  Harry was in the room like a violent gust of wind, snatching the glass from his hand and looming over him. 

At least I taught him how to loom, Severus thought with a flicker of humour, as he looked up into Potter’s unnaturally pale features. 

“Typical, Potter.  You might have tried knocking.” 

“I was in a hurry.”  He held up the half-empty goblet.  “Have you drunk any of this yet?” 

“Ah.  The elves, I presume.  Wretched little creatures, I should have known they’d betray me.” 

“Serve you, more than betray you.”  He sounded angry, and strangely shaken.  “Did – you – drink – any?” 

Severus nodded, composing himself, not altogether unhappy for the opportunity to look into those eyes a final time.  “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I have.” 

“Where’s the antidote!”  He was using that commanding tone that had worked well in battle but had never worked all that well on Severus. 

“One of my better potions, and although I suppose one might be researched in time, there is no working antidote.” 

The strangest expression formed on the young wizard’s face, a sort of angry frustration that Severus could not recall seeing there before.  “You’d better start work on one, then.  This was a really stupid idea, Severus, right up there on the top of the list of all the stupidest ideas I’ve come across.” 

“While I appreciate your concern,” he said, feeling oddly warmed despite the cool tone of his voice, “I have no intention of doing so.  This is my time, I have chosen it, as I have a right to –“ 

“Right then.”  Potter’s expression firmed to a very familiar obstinacy.  “Then I do too.  Maybe I can provide some incentive to change your mind.” 

And before Severus do more than surge upwards in his chair, Harry had put the goblet to his lips and swallowed the remaining dregs of the drugged wine. 

The empty glass went flying as Severus grabbed Harry by the arm, practically gobbling as he tried to speak. 

“You drank . .what .the . .are you **deranged**!” Severus roared. 

Harry pulled himself clear and wiped a hand absently across his mouth.  “Possibly.”  He pushed off Snape’s groping hand.  “  You’d better get to work on the antidote.”  He grimaced.  “Do you have any water?” 

It was so like him, so very Harry Potter, to presume that because he wanted it so, it would all work out.  Reality didn’t stand a chance.  He took a shaky breath and tried to think.  An antidote.  It would have to be worked up from scratch, it would take time, and he only had ten hours, while Harry had twelve.  He had to extend that time. 

“Come with me, you bloody fool.  We have work to do.” 

It was almost midnight when they walked into the darkened laboratory.  A flick of his wand brought the candles and lanterns alight.  “Get me a set of sterilised mixing bowls and a chopping set.  Also the sealed bottle of rainwater over there.”  He continued reeling off instructions as he gathered bottles and boxes from his ingredients store.  

“Will you tell me what you are doing?” 

He looked up as he cracked the top on a sealed container of Angelica.  “I cannot create a specific antidote in the time I have.  I need a theriac to attack the base poisons, which will slow the effects of the magical aspects and give me more time.”  Severus rested his palms on the table and took a deep breath, staring down at the stained surface unseeingly.  “But the theriac has sixty four ingredients, all of which must be prepared and combined specifically.”  He looked up into Harry’s watchful eyes.  “We need assistance.” 

“You don’t have a theriac in stock?” Harry asked as he set the bowls on the table. 

“They don’t keep.  After a few weeks in storage they loose their effectiveness.  I’m sure we covered theriacs in your third year.” 

“That was some time ago, Severus.  A few things have happened since then.  And, you know,” Harry said, and Severus heard the amused undertone in his voice, “I’m not as powerful as everyone thinks.  I don’t have a photographic memory, for starters.” 

The pressure inside his middle somewhere expanded, making his fists clench.  It was an odd sensation, anger and fear and frustration all roiling around together.. He thought some of it might escape like steam from his nose.  “You’re taking this quite lightly.  You do realise you’re dying?” 

Harry shrugged.  “We’re all dying.  No-one gets out of this life alive, as they say.” 

“By why?  Why did you do it?”  Suddenly, he needed to know. 

“To stop you from dying, of course.  If you feel you need to pay for something you’ve done, then pay for it by living and by becoming more, not less.” 

Bloody typical, tossing off philosophical crap in the teeth of death. 

“We don’t have time for your moralistic advice or for my probably qualified responses.  We need to get some assistance here.”  He mulled the matter over, feeling a dull sensation at the back of his head that was the early symptom of the poison acting on his brain.  “The problem is, who to get.  There are not that many suitably trained wizards left alive.” 

“Hermione.  She’s good, and she’s here now.” 

Severus considered the suggestion.  Grainger had indeed been a gifted student and she’d survived the battles to become a respected researcher.  He couldn’t allow pride to get in the way of necessity. “Very well, although I doubt she’ll approve of either of us.  You fetch Miss Grainger, and I shall begin gathering the ingredients for the theriac.  And Potter,” he said softly, as Harry paused by the door, “don’t waste time.  It’s the one thing you can’t afford to loose.” 

“We can’t,” Harry said sharply, turning back to leave.  “We’re in this together.  Again…” And the final word echoed as he headed along the corridor. 

Preserve me from Gryffindors with a mission, he thought sourly, as he began a meticulous ordering of ingredients.  It had all seemed so simple: make himself a gentle dying and leave all the nightmare-haunted sleeps and pointless days behind.  It was a situation that Dumbledore would have considered apt punishment.

 

 

 

She’d been reading for what seemed like hours and the words were starting to run together.  She reached out for the cup of coffee on the small table – it was cold, made who-knew how long ago and forgotten.  Her wand was there, as always, close by her hand and she picked it up and gestured at the cup, saying a few casual words.  The cup jiggled and steam rose from it and she picked it up to drink – but the steam rose higher, grew thicker and then it was winding around her throat, faster and tighter, until she couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe --- 

Hermione came awake with a sobbing cry, heart thudding, her throat still choked and tight.  

Another one.  She thumped the bed in frustrated, weary anger and tried to steady her breathing, to slow her heart by force of will.  Almost every night for months it had been the same, until she was afraid to sleep.  Dreams turning to nightmares where acts of magic, no matter how small, turned dark and terrible, her own power striking at her.  

Panic attacks the doctors called them, and they prescribed sedatives and herbal teas, relaxation therapy and time.  As if such things could wipe away the cause. . . 

Determined, tired beyond fear, Hermione closed her eyes again and hoped. . . 

“Herm…I’m sorry, but you have to wake up.” 

“H..arry?”  She coughed and reached out, groggy and disoriented, for the glass of water next to her bed.  “What…what time is it?” 

“Middle of the night.  Sorry, but can you get up come with me?  It’s sort of an emergency.”

She focused on him and saw, in the wavering glow of the candles he carried, an all-too-familiar look.  It was one she’d seen when someone had died – or was in danger of it.  Instinct pushed her upright;  she dragged on an old oversized jumper, shoved her feet into her slippers and followed him out into the hall. 

“Slow down, Harry, can you tell me what’s wrong?” 

“Yes, but it will save time and energy if we go through the inevitable questions only once.  Let me just say,” he finished, flashing a brief, crooked smile, “I’m in a bit of a fix.” 

That was bad.  It was something of a Potter catch phrase, a way of understating generally apocalyptic disasters.  “Why not tell me now, I think I’m awake enough to cope.” 

He shook his head, determined.  “No, just come with me, we really don’t have a lot of time.”  Harry turned away, forestalling any chance she might have to interrogating him, and Hermione lengthened her stride to catch up with him. 

When he unexpectedly led her downstairs to the Slytherin part of the castle and through into the potions classroom, it seemed she wasn’t just being pessimistic.  Snape was there, and his entire workbench was covered with cutting boards, mixing bowels, cauldrons, and jars and jars of potion materials. 

As she stumbled up to the workbench in Harry’s wake, Snape wiped a hand across his eyes in a strangely vulnerable gesture.  “Miss Grainger, has Potter . . .?” 

“No, but I’m hoping it’s not as bad as I’m feeling it is.” 

“Unfortunately,” he said, his voice a shadow of its normal dark velvet self, “it’s probably worse.”

And as he went on to explain, she wondered if she was still back in her bed asleep, caught up in another twisted nightmare. 

“Are you both absolutely insane!  I’d expect something like this from you, Harry James Potter, but you –“ she pointed at Severus, and he blinked, “from you I would have expected more sense.  What in Merlin’s name has gotten into you!” 

Severus turned to Harry, watching the flush grow on his cheeks.  “I did warn you.” 

“Oh for goodness sake, Hermione!” 

Standing with her hands on her hips, Hermione’s eyes flashed with anger.  “Idiot.  Both of you, idiots.  And don’t give me that glare, Professor Snape, because I’m not your student and I’m feeling a little annoyed here.  I just cannot believe this --!” 

Feeling inadequate for the task, Severus left it to Potter to handle Hermione and set about organising his material stocks.  When she finally joined him, angry but calmer, he explained his plan, and she nodded agreement. 

“Yes, a theriac is the obvious place to start.  What are the ingredients of this damned poison?” 

He pointed to the board behind him where he had written his recipe and proportions while Potter had been gone.  She went to study it and he saw her shake her head. 

“Heavens.  This is complicated.  But what else should I expect?”  She pulled a sheaf of paper from the desk, a pencil from the pencil jar, and sat on a stool to begin taking notes, muttering all the time. 

The sun was rising by the time they had all the ingredients prepared.    Hermione asked for coffee from the house elves and made both wizards drink a cup.  Both men were tired, but more than that, they looked stretched and ill as the first effects of their dying came upon them..  There hadn’t been much time for conversation but she rather thought she understood, despite her initial anger.  They all carried wounds of one sort or another, but the ones Snape bore had to cut deeper than most. 

As for Harry --- Is it psychosis, or love?  And if it’s the latter, the question still applies…


	2. Part 2

It was done, at last.

The ingredients had been combined in a precise blending, pairing one off with its mate, then joining them with others, records kept each step of the way, until finally there were only two filled cauldrons, one containing a bubbling red mixture, the other a cooling green one.

If he’d been marking Potter and Grainger on it, they would have been graded as near to perfect as  
Severus ever graded anyone. Which, considering the circumstances, was a fair effort on everyone’s part.

He was tired, he ached in every joint, and a headache drilled behind his eyes so that he squinted in pain. Severus knew he was half-way to being dead, and Potter was only few steps behind. Of any potion for which he had ever been responsible, this one had to be perfect.

He looked at his pocket watch, counting of the seconds as the chemical and magical reactions took place, knowing they couldn’t be hurried but wishing they could be with the sort of childish impatience he hadn’t had for decades. When the final second ticked its lazy way by, he waved his wand over the primary cauldron, cooling it by stages to match the mix in the secondary cauldron. When his trained and experienced senses told him they were both at the same temperature, Severus poured the secondary into the primary in one deft movement.

There was a hiss, a crackle, and the air in the room seemed to lift, as if a door had been opened and spring had entered. Severus stirred the mix as it turned from red to green to pale gold. He then ladled out two cups, handing one to Harry.

“Drink it all. It may make you a little dizzy, so be prepared to sit.”

Severus waited until Harry had emptied his cup, then drank his own portion, tipping the up and swallowing it down as fast as he could.

The dizziness hit him a few seconds after the potion hit his stomach. He felt hands on his arm, steadying him, and looked down into Hermione’s concerned features.

“Thank you. It will – pass.”

And pass it did, in a few moments, taking the headache with it. The various pains eased, though they didn’t completely vanish. It was not a cure, it simply gave him more time. Death had been postponed, put on hold, for a short time.

When the world steadied, he wiped a hand across his mouth turned to the blackboard and the list of ingredients. “Well, Mr Potter, Miss Grainger, we have a few more hours. Let’s get to work.”

 

The persistent clattering of the owl had woken him in the middle of some confused dream-ridden sleep, and it had taken Ron a while to remember where he was.

His own bed in the Weasley home had become an unfamiliar place over the last few years, but at the end of things he’d returned there, to keep his mother company. It wasn’t the happy place of his childhood – too many deaths, too many spots where he would stop and say, Fred died here, and dad died there trying to save mum and Percy. There were no ghosts, though, the dark magic had taken away even that.

When he’d collected the owl’s message, Ron sat up in bed and read it by the light of his bedside lantern. The words, the signature, shook off the last traces of sleep. His hand twitched a little and he felt the odd ghost sensation of his missing arm wanting to grab it and tear in two. Defensive mechanism, that’s all it was – but the signature created a warm spot in his stomach made up of memory and affection he’d thought had withered like the rest of him, but apparently hadn’t quite died.

But it was Hermione asking for his help, and he’d always gone to her when she’d asked him to. Except the last time, when she’d asked him to stay, and he’d turned and left to come home. Only it wasn’t really home – and neither was Hogwarts, anymore.

In the end, he decided that one place was as bad as another. He got dressed, pulled on an old cardigan over his jeans, and stuffed a few changes of underwear into a backpack. You just never knew when you’d end up being somewhere for longer than you thought. Some things changed, and some needed changing. That had been one of his mother’s favorite sayings. Some things definitely needed changing.

With a last look around the room, Ron extinguished the lantern, walked downstairs and flooed himself to Hogsmeade.

It was around 2 am when he arrived outside Hogwarts. It was that still, cold time of night when the mist lay over the ground and even the owls were asleep. The castle was mostly dark, with only the night lanterns visible through the windows. His footsteps made tapping echoes in the quiet as he climbed the stairs to the side entrance, and as he reached the first landing Ron saw a figure outlined by candlelight waiting at the top. The flickering glow flashed on dark red hair and his heart double-thudded for a moment. Ron took a deep breath and continued on.

“You came.”

He stopped in front of her, nodded. “Well, I didn’t have a lot else to do, and it sounded important.”  
She went to touch him, then pulled back, as she saw his reactive flinch. He didn’t like being touched.

“Thanks, Ron. We really need your help. Come on in and I’ll explain as we go.”

They’d almost reached the entrance to the dungeon when the main aspect of the reason for the rush was revealed. Ron stopped dead, and Hermione walked on a few steps before she realised. She turned, frowning.

“What is it?”

“You called me back to save Snape?”

“I called you,” she said evenly, “because I needed someone I could trust. It isn’t only Professor Snape. It’s Harry. They will both die, and very soon, if we don’t find an antidote.” She waved one hand in frustrated gesture. “Ron, can’t you let the past go? Can’t you --”

“Herm, don’t lecture.”

“She can’t help it. It’s like breathing.”

Ron looked up, squinting into the shadows. It was Harry’s voice, and sure enough he was standing at the top of the dungeon stairs, a Nox light wavering above his head. “Hullo Ron.”

They worked together through the night in an odd sort of fellowship, like parts of a machine that worked in theory but not so well in practise.

Hermione sat at the board and continued to keep track of the poison mixture, making notes as the other’s gathered and combined the ingredients.

“The problem,” she said tiredly at five a.m., “is that this thing has five ingredient ‘strings’, that is, five different mixes that themselves were composed of other components. The normal antidotes for each are constantly being cancelled by the addition of one or more of the other strings.”

“I am aware of that,” Snape said, as he ground yet another batch of moss to a smooth paste. “It was not created specifically to have no antidote, but to ensure that no standard antidote alone would work. Hence the multiple strings.”

“It’s bloody fiendish, if you ask me,” Ron said, his voice stretched and tired. He had worked with Harry for the previous hour, cutting and weighing and preparing the ingredients for each run. “Why didn’t you just get a gun and shoot yourself, would have saved us all a lot of trouble.”

“Ron!” Hermione and Harry yelped at the same moment, while Snape merely sneered. Ron shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. “Oh well, it would have, you know…”

“Thank you, Mr Weasley, exactly what I would expect. However,” Snape said, his voice still carrying some of it’s old dry sarcasm, “who knows that I might have missed, as stupid and illogical as I am, and shot something important. Hand me the dried wasp, please.”

 

By the time the sun was up, they were tiring, and the theriac was starting to wear off. Severus arched his back, stifling a groan. He was stiff, with aches deeply set inside down to the bone, and he felt stretched, like a piece of over-worked string. And Harry -- he tried not to think too much about Harry. Guilt was something he wouldn’t acknowledge, and couldn’t afford. Too many weights added to his own impending demise.

I have done my best, he thought wearily, as he prepared the final mixture, and so has he. He took a moment’s rest, and watched as the younger wizard worked beside him, perched on a stood with his elbows resting on the desk. The dark hair, which had never been tamed, was a mess, ruffled and ragged - where it wasn’t stuck to his sweat-damp face. His glasses were at an angle, and the eyes behind them were red-rimmed. A sharp pain went through Severus, but not from the poison.  
So much for ignoring guilt. I should have know. He has always been my ruin. I should have known the Universe wouldn’t let me go so cleanly.

At that moment Harry turned to him, and gave a tired smile. “Knut for your thoughts?”

Severus shook his head as he continued to stir the mix. “I have none currently worth that much.  
The holding solution is completed, are you ready?”

Harry nodded, gave his potion a final stir, and sat back. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Ron?”

Weasley nodded, as he studied his own selection carefully. He had never been that expert at potions, but Hermione was sitting near him, and Severus knew she’d been keeping an eye on his mix as well as her own.

It was a risk, having someone else prepare the antidote, but the signs were all good, and there was no more time to waste on pointless worrying. He took a deep breath and felt a twinge of pain in his chest. “Very well, now or never, as they say.” Severus poured the holding solution into a larger cauldron, then the others added their portions to it.

There was a moment’s silence, a hiss, a crackle, and the mixture swirled and coalesced, forming a milky liquid. Severus watched it, narrow-eyed with concentration, and when it didn’t discolour, he nodded slowly.

“Good. It is holding it’s confirmation. Potter, you should drink a full cup before it separates.” He lifted a ladle, then watched, surprised, as is fell from his suddenly chilled hand. “I – seem to have lost feeling – in my hands.”

He was falling backwards then, and the three of them caught him before he hit the floor. Severus looked up at their worried faces, blinking. “Miscalculated. Final stage. Loss of feeling in the extremities. Less than an hour now.”

He tried to concentrate, heard Hermione’s anxious voice as they struggled to lift him. “Hold him, Ron!”

“I can’t!” Weasley’s voice was tight and angry as he tried to get a grip on Severus’ should. “In case you haven’t noticed...”

“I have, alright, I have noticed,” Hermione snarled. “But you’re wizard, damn it, use your powers! Or did they cut get off too, like everything else!”

Severus felt the young wizard push against his back to lever him up, and then he was floating, rising in the air to land gently on the nearest empty bench. It seemed, after all, that some of that wand waving had been put to good use.

“Well done,” he said, as the world spun around, “I’d award House points if you were still a student.” Severus waited, lying perfectly still, until the dizziness passed. He focused on Harry’s face peering down at him, framed by Weasley and Grainger. “Did you drink it?”

“Not yet.” Harry turned to the table, and poured a ladle full into a mug. “You first.” He knelt down, lifted Severus’ head and put the mug to his lips. “Just drink it, we don’t have time to argue.”  
He concentrated on that, on the feel of the hand at the back of his head, the eyes watching him with something more than dislike, as he swallowed the thin, bitter brew. Harry held him as he finished the mug, and they waited for the seconds to pass.

“Well?”

He tried to sit up – but the world spun and his vision dimmed for a moment.

And there was still the tingling in his arms and legs.

And there was still the spreading numbness.

No.

Harry must have seen it in his face, sensed the ragged hitch of breath. “It didn’t work.”

Hermione sat back onto the floor with a thud, eyes wild. “That’s impossible! It has to have worked! Every step was right, every reaction correct. Why didn’t it work?”

“Maybe it takes some time,” Ron said, and Severus shook his head.

“No. Should be an immediate reaction.” He managed to lift one hand and wrapped cold fingers around Harry’s wrist. “I did warn you. It seems…I worked the poison better than I knew.”

He must have passed out for a few moments; when the world refocused he was sitting upright in his chair, with Harry beside him. There was a vague pressure at his wrist and he looked down to see his pulse being taken. Hermione was counting the beats with her pocket watch, and looked up after a time. “Your heart rate is down, blood pressure dropping. Do you feel any pain?”

“No. That much I managed to get right.”

She continued to hold his hand; he sensed movement around him but couldn’t focus on it. Hermione’s gaze was intent, distracted and he knew her well enough to tell she’d had an idea.

“What?”

“You were right. You’re too good at potions to make a mistake. So if it wasn’t a mistake, the antidote, then some outside influence is stopping it from working.” She ran her fingers over his wrist absently, and the slight intimacy warmed him. “I think there may be something more to this than just the ingredients and blending. There is lifemagic at work here.” She focused on his face. “Do you trust me, Professor Snape?”

An odd question. There were few people he trusted, but he thought, in the dying minutes of his life, that he might admit to trusting one more. “Yes. What is your intent?”

“Not many people know that I have been practicing Legilimency. In fact, I’ve became a rather good Leglimens. If you can resist the normal reactions of the very powerful Occlumens I know you to be, it may be possible for me to test my theory.”

Harry and Ron, who had been whispering in the background, went silent at this. “You’re a Leglimens?” Weasley looked astonished. “You never said!”

“No, with good reason. A lot of people don’t much care to know someone can read their minds.  
Now, shush, we don’t have a lot of time.” She sat on desk before him, held both his hands, and stared into his eyes. “Don’t fight me, Severus. Let go.”

As she began the incantation, as her eyes filled his view, Severus fought back the natural urge to block, and let her into his mind.

 

The first thing Hermione noticed was the screaming.

It was there in the background like static made up of many voices. Male voices, female, even children’s. It interfered with her concentration and she summoned strength to block it out. It became muted, but never went away. She put aside for later the question of how he could live with that constant pressure in his mind, and moved on.

She could sense his weakness, and the death that was sliding into him, darkening the edges of his mind.

His memories were locked away in rooms behind heavy doors. She could tell what they were by touching them, for the Legilimency was as much about emotions as thoughts. One large door led to his childhood and she sensed loneliness, the feeling of being apart.

…unsatisfactory child…something strange looking dead in the garden ….old enough to know better…

A little further down the dim passageway, another door, leading to his youth.

…School of Wizardry invites you…Severus, introduce you to Lucius Malfroy..greasy git – Voldemort – VOLDEMORT – PAIN –

She stepped back from that door and moved on to the next, but it was much the same, growing older, growing darker, feelings of anguish and power, anger and guilt, and then a strange door, all white, and the only feeling from it was understanding.

It became worse the further she traveled, and the Death was growing stronger around her like a fog, masking her way. She pushed against it, pushed it back, reached out somehow and felt herself linking with Ron and Harry, knew them to be with her from a familiar sense of togetherness they had shared through a third of their lives. Like hands linking, their power meshed.

She came at last to the final door, and it was ajar, because it the place he was at then and there, and the memories and feeling moved in and out of it like pale, cool wind. Hermione straightened and pushed the door open, stepping through inside.

The room was dimly lit by lanterns that turned, throwing images like moving pictures on the walls. He was sitting in a high backed chair at a desk, writing. An elf stood beside him, taking each sheet as he finished it and tearing it to pieces before eating the pieces. She floated towards him and stopped next to him.

Why are you doing that?

He paused to look up at her and he was composed and calm. He didn’t stop writing and he didn’t answer. He was resisting her. She tried again, drawing on more power.

Severus, why are you doing that?

She reached out her hand and intercepted one of the pages. There was a pull, a pressure as he tried to keep it from her, and she paused, and looked into his shadowed eyes.

Don’t fight me, Severus. I’m trying to help you.

He held on, motionless, persistent, and on impulse she reached out and slapped him across the face.

He blinked, paused, and there was some expression in his face and Hermione sensed a growing respect.

Let go. Whatever it is, is it more important than Harry’s life?

For moments there was no reaction, and then the pressure eased and he let go. She looked down at the scroll. It was a poem and the ink was red and damp.  
in the gray ash days

_when i have walked too far on broken bones_  
_i have put away the suspect dreams and taken_  
_flight towards some other place where there are_  
_no small cries and hopeless eyes to taunt and haunt_  
_me_

She took the next page from him as he finishing dipping the pen into his wrist to write.

_if i live the pain goes on and on like songs_  
_from a harp whose strings are in the beast’s_  
_heart, living still and plucked_  
_remorseless because_  
_it isn’t forgotten_  
_guilt is not a memory and_  
_there is no magic to take it away_

Hermione paused, the scroll in her hand. That was it, of course. Part of him still wanted to die – at his very core, Severus Snape held a guilt so great that even the threat of Harry’s death could not wipe it away. She didn’t know what it was – if she dug, went back to those rooms and forced open the doors, she would know. She didn’t want to know. Some things were better left unrecognised.

The living thinking Snape wanted to help Harry, but the hidden, guilt-ridden Snape wanted even more to die, to pay for his guilt. The subconscious has no morality, only needs.

She settled herself in a chair alongside Snape’s inner self image. He was gaunt, his robes stained, his face blotched and unhealthy. This was a wounded soul, but strong, so strong. She laid a hand on the arm and felt the heat under her translucent fingers.

Isn’t there anything you want to live for?  
He paused, the air quivered and the whispering stopped for a few moments – and then he began writing again. She looked over his shoulder at the red, damp words --

to see him every day and know  
that what he sees  
he doesn’t hate

Hermione knew who it was he was thinking of - Severus Snape wanted Harry Potter. Snape wanted him in a way she could understand, because it was less than lust and more than desire. Hunger as for food, but of the spirit as much as flesh. It was the wanting for something that completed you.

She also knew the moment Harry sensed it, felt it as a wash of some indescribable emotion. But time was definitely in short supply and she would worry about the added complication later, if either of them survived.

A cold wind stirred the hair at her neck, and the light around her dimmed. It was getting closer, the Dark, the final death that his poison assured. She put aside the matter of Harry and concentrated…only to feel it slip away.

Damn it. Damn it, what was wrong?

She felt a warm touch, looked down to find him handing her a parchment, written in lavender, smelling of fire.

_that which does not destroy us_  
_makes us stronger and_  
_that which destroys_  
_those we love_  
_makes us weak_

Strange, how she understood him so much better in prose, inside his mind. She remembered her own dreams, riding into each sleep on the Night Mare, coloured with fear and panic. She’d avoided magic so often over the last few months; this was the first powerful thing she’d done since the day Molly Weasley had died. If I wasn’t strong enough to save her, and the others, then what was it worth, to be a witch? That was the core of her own fear – that being clever had not been enough.

She understood then. Her weakness was grief, and the fact that she’d had too much compassion. His weakness was guilt, and that his compassion – never strong, except for those few he loved – had been denied by necessity. Survival, success, at the cost of his soul.

He was slipping into shadow and she needed more strength to reach him. In a way she could never afterwards explain, that could only come to her from people she had shared half her life with, she took strength from Ron and Harry, added it to her own, and grabbed Snape. He tried to slide from her grip but she held on, her heart and power driving through into him.

Let the magic work for you, Severus. Let it save you, and he will be saved as well. If you die and he dies, Voldemort wins after all. Don’t let him win.

He paused, looked up at her and then –

She stumbled, felt a hand at her back, heard Ron’s voice.

“Hermione, are you alright?”

She turned, grabbed the tumbler of potion, and thrust it into Harry’s hands.

“Drink it.”

He was flushed and pale, and his hand shook. “But ‘mione, it doesn’t work!”

“It does. Severus stopped it from working on himself.” She gave the unconscious wizard a brief glance. “Look, his breathing has already improved. He’ll be alright. We got it right.” She took in an unsteady breath and watched him drink. “Just like before. Just like every time.”

And she didn’t even realise she was crying until Ron handed her a handkerchief.

 

The scroll could have either contained a spell for changing barley water into nitroglycerine, or a recipe for Scotch Broth, for all that Harry could focus on it in the dim golden lamplight.  He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes, gingerly.  They were hot and sore, a familiar feeling after a week of recovering from yet another near-death experience – this time self-inflicted.  Still, his sleep was better.  No dreams, but he wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad sign.  

The patterns of his life were resuming, gradually.  There were positives: whatever Hermione had done creating the link between them, it had produced a significant effect on Ron.  He’d been there in the hospital ward when Harry had woken and had stayed for a week and it was almost like old times, with Harry in bed and Ron visiting with stories and conversation, with anecdotal tales that were as unlikely as they were entertaining.  The spark that had been so much a part of Ron had woken again in his eyes.  

When he’d left, he’d been unusually enigmatic.  

“Go for it,” he’d whispered, as he’d taken Harry’s hand in his in farewell.  A genuine smile, and just as much real warm strength in that single grip, and then he was gone to visit his brothers in Austria.

What exactly ‘go for it’ meant, he wasn’t sure, and it worried him that he couldn’t figure out something Ron Weasley might say.  

With the serendipitous way she had of being she was needed, Hermione was suddenly there, sitting beside him.  “You should be asleep.  It’s late.”  

He twitched and covered it with a yawn.  “You could make a living as an assassin with moves like that.” He smiled at her, fondly.  “But thanks, I’m fine, really.”  

She gave an unconvinced grunt.  “Of course you are.”  She fidgeted with her hair, staring beyond his shoulder, unfocused.  “Just like him.  Fine.  Almost.”  

Harry had a pretty good idea who ‘him’ was; Hermione had visited Snape during his slow convalescence as often as she had Harry.  “What’s wrong now?”  

She paused, considered, and focused on his face.  “Can I ask you something?”  

He blinked, leant forward and pinched her cheek.  She yelped, and pushed his hand away.  

“Harry!”  

“Sorry, just testing.  You’re real, alright.  Imagine Hermione Granger needing permission to ask a question!”  

She laughed.  “Idiot!  Seriously, I just wanted to ask…”  She paused, frowned.  “Well, I wanted to know why.  Why did you do it?”  

No need to ask, Harry knew exactly what she meant.  He’d chewed over that very question often enough during his convalescence.  “Why?  I don’t know.  It was an impulse, and I didn’t have much time to think.”  

She stood, went to Harry’s cabinet, took out the bottle of sherry and two glasses.  “But impulses are genuine reactions, they’re things we do instinctively, without thought.  That’s why we call them impulses.  So it had to mean something.”  She poured the sherry, handed him a glass, and curled up in his armchair by the fire.  “If you look at it logically, it’s really simple.  You did it to force Snape to find an antidote, because you knew that he’d do anything to save your life.”  She sipped the sherry, watching him over the glass.  “You did it even knowing you would die if he failed.  That tells me two things.  First, that you trust Severus Snape with your life, and had some reason to believe he would fight to the death to save you.  Second, you knew that if he failed, you’d die – and that didn’t matter.  Because if he died, you wanted to die too.”  

Harry opened his mouth to refute the idea – then stopped, and closed his mouth.  He drank the sherry without thinking, frowning his way around the suggestion.  “That’s a pretty strong assumption based on limited evidence.”  

“Maybe.  The first part is right.  I admit I’m less sure of the second part, but it fits.”  She drank some more, and he watched her savoring the taste, working around the facts in a way very familiar to him.  “And you have to remember, I was interlinked with Severus through the spell, and to you and Ron.  But it wasn’t just one way, was it?  You sensed things as well, didn’t you?

He studied her, swirling the dregs of wine idly.  “Severus Snape isn’t an easy man to read.  Even you will admit that.”  

“You’re avoiding the subject.  Snape being complicated is nothing new.  After all, we spent most of our childhood disliking him as a teacher and hating him as a traitor, without ever really knowing the man at all. We all took things for granted, saw everything as black and white.”  She looked down at her glass, twirling it slowly.  “But you see more now, don’t you?  He means more to you than just your shared past.  More than guilt, even friendship.”  

Harry considered it.  “Snape isn’t a friend.”  

Hermione's head tilted to one side.  "Isn't he?  What qualifies a friend?  To me, it's someone who's prepared to go that extra inch for you, who cares about you in some personal, important way.  Snape certainly qualifies there."  

"I mean, friends?"  Harry frowned at the idea.  "Him, me – we've never exactly been close, not like you and me and Ron."  

She laughed.  “No, he’s not the friendly sort, not in the conventional way.  He's hard and dangerous, he lets few people get close because he knows that people who are close to him can do the most harm.  And he's led a dangerous life – anyone who got close to him became a target."  She stared at Harry, unfocused, considering.  "I think that's become pretty instinctive now, that holding people at a distance.  But no, his isn't a friendly person, and sometimes he'll say things to hurt, and be nasty."  She focused on Harry, shrugged.  "But friendship comes in all sorts of shades and styles, just like people, and sometimes being a friend is hard.  Not everyone can be kind hearted.  But I think, for those few people he cares about, Severus Snape will do anything.  Anything at all."  She put the glass down.  "Do you like him?"

The instinct was to say no, but that would be an answer out of habit, and a lie.  "Like isn't the right word for how I feel about Severus Snape.  It's way more complicated than that."

She nodded.  "Yes, I know.  The magic let me know a lot more than I might have guessed otherwise."  She hesitated, then continued.  "There's something else."  

Harry caught the tone, and frowned.  "What now?"  

"I'm not altogether certain he won't try it again.  The issues haven't all been resolved.  I thought my arguments convinced him, but now I'm not sure."  

Harry stood, abruptly angry.  "You're not serious!  What we went through, and he's still thinking of suicide?"  

She nodded.  "Yes, he is.  He's a stubborn man, Harry."  

He headed for the door.  "So am I.  We'll see about that…"  

For the second time, Harry barged into Snape's rooms without knocking.  Granted, it wasn't with quite the same energy, but considering the circumstances, that was hardly surprising.  

Severus looked up from his reading and frowned.  "Is there a sign on my door, perhaps put there by some lunatic student, saying 'Barge in Without Knocking'?"  

Harry didn't rise to the comment; he grabbed the only spare chair, moved it in front of Snape and sat.   "I've been talking to Hermione about you."  

Severus closed the book and put it aside, his movements controlled.  "Have you indeed?  Why does that not surprise me?  No," he said, suddenly, voice deepening with annoyance when Harry tried to speak, "I have a very good idea what Ms Granger has been discussing with you, considering how she rifled around in my mind, and I'm barely surprised she obviously didn't bother to keep such things in confidence.  In any case," Snape said, anger flushing his cheeks, "I don't care to have any further prying into my life, desires, needs or wishes.  Not by her, and not by you."  

Harry straightened, and felt himself blush.  He made it all so bloody hard.  _In more ways than one…_

Harry brushed the hair out of his eyes and took a deep breath.  "As it happens, I have no idea what Hermione found while, ah, rifling, around in your mind.  But she did tell me you might well be considering still, well, doing yourself in – and in that case, I wanted to ---"  

"Whatever it is you want, it's hardly relevant.  It's none of your business, Potter.  Your last interference almost killed you, with your typical Gryffindor self-sacrificing, blundering about and although I suppose it's stupid of me to think you might learn from it, I…"  

It was sadly familiar; he spoke, Snape rode over the top of him; he tried to explain, Snape just ignored him and stepped up the insults.  Familiarity didn't breed contempt, it guaranteed it.  Well, there was one sure way to both test the theory he'd developed from what he'd sensed during that magical linking, and to shut Snape up.  Harry cut the tirade short by standing, pulling Snape to his feet and kissing him.  

Snape stood frozen for a few moments, then pushed him backwards.  

"What in any god's secret name are you doing!?"  

"Kissing you."  

"Thank you, yes, I'm fairly clever and had worked that part out.  Why are you kissing me, you idiot!"  

"Um…it seemed like a good idea at the time?"   

Snape sneered.  "Original, Potter.  What other clichés and lunacies did you have in mind to offer me?"  

Harry grinned.  Few people could tell, but Snape…Severus…was dithering.  Any other time, with anyone else, they would have been sent head-first through the door without bothering to open it first.  He didn't move, didn't back away, but didn't stop watching those pale, deadly hands, either.  

"Well, I didn't see a slow courtship working."  

"If this is some sort of sick joke..!"  

Harry stood with his hands on hips, and laughed outright.  "I don't bloody well kiss someone as a joke!  God's truth, Severus, I'm being serious here!  I did it because I wanted to and because I couldn't fucking well think of any other way to show you."  

Severus sucked in two deep breaths through flared nostrils.  "Language, Potter!  Show me what?"  

Harry fidgeted.  "Well, that I, you know, have this thing."  

"Thing.  It sounds like a disease. Could you be a little more precise?"  

Harry stepped closer, ignoring the glare and noting that Severus didn't back away from him.  They were very close, almost touching.  "Yes, I can.  The thing is an idea.  There's this old American Indian fable," Harry said softly, "that if you save a person's life, they belong to you.   I saved your life, and you belong to me.  You saved my life, so I'm yours.  Mutual possession."  He put up one hand, carefully, to thread his fingers through hair that wasn't anything like greasy.  "We're starting out fresh.  Forget the past."  He leaned closer, so close he could see that Snape was shaking.  "Yours, Severus.  What would you like to do with me?"  

Harry had forgotten how deceptively fast Snape was; there was just a rustle of fabric, a flash of movement and then Severus was all around him, arms wrapping him, body pressing against him, face buried against his throat.  He began to slip down and Harry followed him until they were on the floor in front of the fire, still holding each other, not speaking as the world realigned itself to a place where Severus Snape and Harry Potter could touch, and hold.  

"You can't really want this," Severus whispered,  his voice a ghost of its normal self. "I'm old and plain.  Whereas you…"  Severus pulled back a little, eyes dark pools in the firelight, "you are spectacularly neither."  

Harry lifted his hands to brush the black hair from Severus' face.  "When a wizard can live hundreds of years, old is relative.  And as for plain," Harry gave a small snorting laugh, "well, you aren't handsome."  He felt Severus stiffen, but continued stroking him.  "No, you aren't handsome.  You've a nasty temper and a gold class sneer.  Your nose is big," Harry said, as he leant forward to kiss said nose, "and your skin is a bit sallow," as his mouth moved down over Severus' cheek, "and I've seen you draw blood with words from this wide, bad mouth," as his own mouth stopped and hovered.  "But you're powerful and brilliant, you move like a god and your voice could melt steel.  What more could I want?"  He waited, mouth partly open, as the black eyes stared into his.  "Well, I know what more I want, if you fancy giving it to me."

Then Severus moved forward across the small space between them and they were kissing with the sort of hunger that only the possessed can know.  

Harry hung on, hands gripping black cloth, held close by arms wrapped around him.  The features in front of him blurred, lost focus.  A tongue searched out the depth of his mouth, sliding along his own and he twisted his head, moaning at the feel of that deep, moist touch.  Severus tasted of wine and smoke and hunger and the faint, fading taste of the poison that had nearly taken them.   

They both drew back a little, but only to kiss again, lips tasting each other, sliding over chin and cheek, licking perspiration-dampened skin.  Hands gripped the back of his head, a hard body was pressed against him and he realised he was on his back, on the floor and Severus was lying over him.  He should have been uncomfortable, lying there on Snape's floor, but it felt wonderful, and he parted his legs and wrapped them around Severus' hips.  Loins brushed together, arousal inciting arousal, and then Harry was being kissed again and it was too much, too fast, too amazing to last.  He groaned into Severus' mouth and convulsed, coming with the sort of uncontrolled lust he hadn't experienced since his emergence into puberty.  

His climax ignited Severus and a little while later they lay together, side by side; uncomfortable in places, untidy in others, and warmly satiated.  

"This wizard of mature years," Severus said in slightly hoarse voice that threatened to ignite Harry all over again, "needs to be intimate in a bed, and not on a stone floor."  He half turned his head, watching Harry through the fall of his hair.  "You're very bad for my health."  

Harry sighed contentedly and curled against him.  "Yes, sort of like your nasty little poison, only it took me ten years to overcome you."  

"Yes," said Severus Snape in a tone of voice that Harry thought he might like to become accustomed to.  "It seems you are the fatal ingredient for which there is hopefully no antidote."


End file.
